


Toward Light

by blasphemefatale (letterstonorah)



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-18
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-26 23:15:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/letterstonorah/pseuds/blasphemefatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He finds her exquisite, and lets her know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toward Light

He’s not sure what he expects when he drags his thumb across her cheek , brushes the tip over her lips (which are, by all accounts, quite perfect). Abbie’s breath stutters in her throat, an audible hiccup, and he asks, “Is this all right?”

She nods into his finger, then presses the side of her face into his palm. Her brown eyes close, and Ichabod thinks, _indeed, this has been a long time coming._

Candles flicker here and there, casting the two of them in amber glow. He can’t help but smile; several years post awakening in that grave, he’s still terribly, dreadfully, and hopelessly antiquated. Electricity, despite its many uses, baffles him. And whilst Abbie calls his oil lamps a fire hazard, he holds fast to his anachronisms.

“Should we—” Ichabod starts, cutting himself off to gesture with his head to the bedroom.

The deep breath she inhales speaks to her apprehension, and he asks her again. “Is this what you want, Abbie?”

Swallowing, she says, “Yeah. You?”

“I thought I’d made that quite obvious, but in case I haven't, _yes._ You are exquisite, and I want you.” He says it because he knows it’s the sort of thing that will make blood rush to her face hotly, so that she understands, for even just a moment, how lovely she is to him. “I’ve desired you for some now.” Ichabod doesn’t mention the part where his heart pounded unbearably fast in hist chest at the very first sight of her, and it's only gotten worse in the subsequent years.

Incidentally, he has her against the wall. He kisses her, and the throaty moan she emits infects him with a sort of madness, until his tongue is in her mouth and his penis is hard and nothing is real but the need to join with her in some way.

Pressing kisses down her neck, her shirted chest and stomach—which he’s in too much of a rush to bother removing—he unbuttons her trousers, pulls them off ( _still, still, still,_ something that's novel as hell—ladies in anything but puffy frocks). He rubs his face against the black hair covering her, feels slightly abashed for doing so. It’s coarse and prickles his cheeks, and he could do it forever if it wasn’t for the smell of her arousal inviting him farther downward.

He tastes her, and she cries out, and the combination of her moisture and desperate pants excites him beyond reasonable measure. He presses his tongue inside of her, exploring, before flicking it over clit over and over and over until her knees buckle and she’s pulling his hair tightly (the hair that she keeps insisting he get cut).

Ichabod is not such a noble man as people think, and he feels compelled to take his plesure, too. He undoes his jeans, pulls his cock out of his undergarments, and jerks himself as he devours her cunt. Pulling one of her legs over his shoulder, he licks more forcefully, and he knows the pressure for her is immense. Still, she tugs him closer, pushes her hips into his face, and when she stars bucking her clitoris into his tongue, it’s a lost cause, and he spurts come onto the floor, groaning at the taste of her, the smell of her, the softness of her bare thigh against his cheek. Abbie reaches climax mere seconds later, crying out, and Ichabod can hardly believe this is real.

For the next round, they make it as far as the sofa, until it’s gotten to be midnight. He holds her tightly, aware of the desperation in the gesture. Ichabod cannot bring himself to let go.

Abbie seems all right with this, as she lays her head upon his chest, plays with the brown curls of hair. For the first time since 1776, he is content.


End file.
